


can't get under me

by pillowfluff (khatchadourian)



Category: The Dirties (2013)
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, but anyways like, i hate using tags i feel like, i'm overexplaining, okay that's all, they fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 19:02:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16624664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khatchadourian/pseuds/pillowfluff
Summary: He removed some of his weight off from Matt’s shoulder, ever-so-slightly, as they kept trudging along. He could feel Matt shift beneath him, almost imperceptibly, a move so subtle that he wasn’t even sure if he felt anything at all.





	can't get under me

The cottage didn’t seem all that far from where the bonfire was held—at least, not with the initial dredges of sunlight that the evening had granted them. Maybe it was something the fire did to his eyes, maybe even the smoke, but afterwards, to Owen, the walk back to the college felt much less like nighttime and much more like he was adrift, rudderless in some vacuum. He knew that Matt knew where he was going, which was all that mattered, and regardless, he could make out the distant lights of the dim windows, warm squares floating in what felt like an expanse of black broken up only by the dim gray of the sky above them, interspersed with the splattering glitter of stars. He still kept an arm hooked over Matt’s shoulder, though, not wanting to stumble or fall without any kind of support. He could feel the soak of sweat through Matt’s shirtsleeve, the warmth of his skin, but he tried not to think about it, really.

“Y’really think the plan’s going to work?” he asked Matt.

“Owen,” Matt started, walking stridently forward, “Man, if it doesn’t work, then she wasn’t even _worth_ bothering with, like, she’d have to be the biggest fucking idiot _ever_ to not be into that.”

“I know,” Owen said, “But, like, what if she’s not? What if it doesn’t work?”

Matt shrugged a little, and Owen wished it were lighter out so he could see if there was a shift in Matt’s expression, but he figured there probably wasn’t one, anyways. “Why wouldn’t it?”

“I guess.”

The silence that took hold led Owen to believe that that was the end of that, but felt uncomfortable within it, especially so close to Matt; he felt smothered by something he couldn’t articulate or even recognize, but he felt his face grow warm in response to it, the errant prickle of clamminess dusting his cheeks.

“Even if it doesn’t,” Matt said, never one for leaving silences as they were, “Who fucking cares? Oh, some fuckin— _girl_ didn’t like something, what are you gonna do, die over it?”

Owen remained quiet, until Matt, apparently expecting a response, “Huh?”’d him.

“I guess not,” he said.

He removed some of his weight off from Matt’s shoulder, ever-so-slightly, as they kept trudging along. He could feel Matt shift beneath him, almost imperceptibly, a move so subtle that he wasn’t even sure if he felt anything at all.

* * *

 

Matt turned the lamp on the sofa-side table off and slid into the sleeping bag beside his own, his hair, wet from the shower, still sticking to his forehead. “God, that was some day, wasn’t it?” he asked, more rhetorically than anything, nestling into the smooth fabric before he started talking again. “I feel like we got so much done. We figured out your Chrissy thing, we got more footage, we shot some guns.”

“The shooting would’ve been nice if we hadn’t run out of things to shoot so quickly,” Owen said, unwilling to talk about the first thing.

Matt _tsk_ ed. “What’re you gonna do, take your sweet time? It was hot outside. Might’ve been smarter to shoot in the evening, honestly.”

“But then it wouldn’t have filmed as well.”

“It might’ve filmed better, actually,” he started, motioning with his hands almost like he was counting off fingers. “Like, with the flares? On the shore? I’ll have to show you the footage tomorrow. Remind me.”

It was dark, but not as dark as it had been on the walk to, and while Owen could make out the faint cast of Matt’s face in the dim light, the sketch of it, he couldn’t read his expression. There wasn’t much else he could do but nod, so he did, and said, “I will.”

“Well,” Matt replied, sinking lower into his sleeping bag, “G’night.”

“Night,” Owen said.

* * *

 

Owen never got the chance to fully lose consciousness. He started to doze off, but he was disturbed from, eyes opening blearily, the window still dark. He figured that his biological clock was off just a bit, one of those matters where you wake up at 4 am inexplicably and for no reason, until he saw that the light was on again, the digital clock on the wall had only moved forward about forty minutes. He was about to lie back down and try to fall back to sleep again when he saw something to his left shift very slightly, and by extension felt something shoved into his drawstring pajama pants fumble slightly.

“Matt?” he said, his voice hoarse and creaky from sleep, and Matt shushed him, not taking his hand out.

“Nelson’s sleeping, man,” he said quietly, probably more quiet than Owen had ever heard him speak before. He lightly traced a digit along the length of Owen’s cock. His face looked nonchalant, brows knit more like he was trifled by an untied shoelace than suggestive of what he was instigating. “You’re gonna have to be quiet.”

Owen sighed. “Matt, you just can’t _do_ this—”

“Do you not want me to?” Matt asked, voice still quiet but not small, hand still situated where it was, “Because if you don’t, I won’t. But only if you don’t.” There was a certain stillness to his voice, devoid of his usual urgency and avidity, yet retaining all sincerity and candor; there was no ulterior motive, no tricks to be pulled.

And that shut Owen up, at least for a moment, and then he shook his head, feeling too confronted to respond any other way. And he could have, too, because Matt had every opportunity to say something snide and callous, to throw it back into Owen’s face, every opportunity to throw out a “That’s what I thought” or “I figured”, which would have been like him to do in nearly every sense, but luckily for himself, and unluckily for Owen, he had the good sense to bite his tongue for once in his life.

 

Owen was surprised to be disappointed over how slowly they had to operate. Their typical routine, down in Matt’s basement, was rushed, more out of solid need than of wanton indulgence, furtive in another way entirely, and the present departure from their usual hastiness to cum and get it over with was jarring to him. The slow shifting, the lingering, felt a tad bit too romantic for him; he’d had visions of similar circumstances with Chrissy, which usually inspired a certain heat and fogginess within his mind, one that was presenting itself now on the cottage floor. He wasn’t used to being this close to Matt for this long, and he felt self conscious about the swell between his legs in a way he hadn’t before.

Matt’s skin was still damp from his shower and the fabric of his pajamas, his boxer briefs, clung to it when they undressed, leaving Owen feeling lecherous as he practically unwrapped the soft flesh of Matt’s thighs. The only thing saving him from his thoughts was the fact that Matt, seemingly frustrated by the slow roll of this, shoved them down. He reached over to pull the same maneuver onto Owen, moving towards his lanky frame, but then paused. “Fuck,” he said.

“What?”

“I don’t think I brought condoms.”

“We don’t have to, um—” Owen started to offer, before Matt interrupted him, saying, “No, no, we can. It’s just, _different_ , you know?”

“It’s just—” but he stopped himself then, because Matt shot him a look, dark-eyed and set, and he knew he couldn’t say no. “Fine,” he said, and Matt got to work as quickly as he’d stopped.

Matt slipped his free hand up Owen’s shirt, brushing his thumb against one of Owen’s nipples. Owen tensed up at and, impulsively, dug his nails into Matt’s leg, little half-moon indents; Matt responded by shoving himself further against Owen.  He pressed his open mouth against the side of Owen’s neck; Owen, recognizing what he was about to do, shoved his head away. “You can’t,” he said.

“Mm?” he responded, taking his hand out from Owen’s shirt to wipe away the spit around his mouth. “Why?”

“I don’t want Chrissy to see that,” he mumbled.

Matt huffed, a noise of incredulousness. “ _Okay_ ,” he said, palming Owen.

They worked slowly, fumbling through the approach, Owen still uncomfortable with what ultimately was circumstantial warmth and tenderness. He could still smell the cloying scent of smoke off of Matt, stronger here and now than it’d been even beside the fire. They shuffled slowly, quietly, pausing here and there to listen for creaks in the floor, the sigh of a bed someone got up from, the whine of a doorway opening; everything a risk. And yet they still persisted, Owen dizzy with arousal, snaking his way around Matt’s ass, working a finger and then two fingers in in close circles, Matt hitching and screwing his eyes shut, his mouth twisted into something circular. Owen followed his fingers, pulling Matt onto him, his precum making entry much less of a struggle than it could have been. His and Matt’s breathing hitched, nearly in tandem, but only nearly.

Matt clenched around him, his face screwing up. He pressed his face into Owen’s shoulder to keep from moaning too loudly, and even through his shirt Owen could feel the burning flush of his cheek. Their hips rutted against each other, Owen responding to something yielding inside of Matt, picking up his pace.

“Matt,” he whispered, “Matt, I’m gonna, ah, do I pull out, or—”

Matt, not even lifting up his head, letting the unsteady rhythm of Owen’s pumping rock him, shook his head. “No,” he mumbled against Owen’s chest, barely audible. “No, it’s fine, we—” and then he tensed up, something crumpling within him, and after a sharp intake of breath he fell totally silent, coming all over Owen’s shirt with a shudder. Owen soon followed, shaking, still inside Matt, and felt something release within himself as he did.

They both sat there for a moment, Owen pulling out, cum cooling on Matt’s ass and between his thighs, breathing in their small, quiet ways. “M’sorry about your shirt,” Matt mumbled to Owen, in total sincerity.

“S’fine,” he said. “I can always get another.”

Matt made a face Owen couldn’t really make any specific sense of, which wasn’t unusual; but somehow now it was different, and Owen couldn’t substantiate it, but he knew the process behind it was different, too, and that something, whatever it was, wasn’t the same, and he didn’t know if he’d ever be able to pinpoint it, nor if he wanted to. Matt exhaled slowly. “I guess you can,” he said.

* * *

 

In the bed of the truck again, on the car ride back, there was nothing for them to do; the guns had been examined and used, the landscape familiar. Owen can remember hearing some fact, ages ago, about how return trips always feel quicker, and how there was some psychological rationale to it, something about how the predictability of your surroundings lets your mind fill in the gaps quicker. Despite the vague familiarity of the forests, the roadways, the landmarks they'd seen before, though, it felt like it was lasting forever. In the coolness of the setting sun (they'd left late in the day), gold cast upon everything, Owen turned to face at Matt, having the niggling and familiar feeling that Matt was looking at him. But he wasn't; he was just looking off at the road moving behind them all, everything growing smaller and farther away. 

**Author's Note:**

> it really be like that huh
> 
>  
> 
> not perfect, unmoderated, who cares, who cares


End file.
